‘“The Edge of Things”. I found it online. I began reading it last night and couldn’t stop. I think the writer is hugely talented.’

‘You do?’

‘Do you know them well?’

‘Quite well.’

‘I have a friend who edits a literary magazine in London. I think they would be very interested in doing something with her work. He is very interested in literature from other countries.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes. Are they contactable?’

‘I think so. I will find out.’

I gave it a beat.

‘It’s very nice to hear your voice. There’s not many people here I’ve met who I have much in common with.’

‘Me neither.’

‘Would you meet me for a coffee?’

‘When?’

‘Today.’

‘Okay,’ Aliya said. ‘A quick one.’

‘Do you know Café Corso on the corner of Bayanaul Street? I can be there at seven.’ Corso was far enough away from the governmental district for discretion without it being impractical for her to get to.

‘Seven? I think so. I will try.’

‘I will be there.’

‘Okay.’ She hung up.

Too easy, I thought. The doubt was drilled into you over time: no one simply took your hand when you reached out.

I sent an encrypted email to Hugh Stevenson, informing him that Joanna had hacked into Vectis. I asked him to see whether Vauxhall had any previous concerns about the private intelligence company, but suggested he move carefully.

I bought a new shirt, checked my phone for news. Semey had kicked off in a serious way. News of the young man’s death in custody had spread fast. Another protester had been injured and was critical in hospital. The square was filled with chanting, braziers lit, flames promising violence of their own.

Is this a revolution? Piper had asked. A Central Asian spring? I took a brief look at inflation rates and average incomes. These were the ones to watch, short of being able to watch the silent majority itself, the weather creeping through its heart, approaching that magic point of collective rage when risking your life became a rational act. That was what I had prided myself on assessing in CX reports. A horizon watcher, as Joanna had mocked. There were several online tools for calculating the likelihood of civil unrest, but I didn’t feel any of them took enough account of people like Aliya.

I pocketed the Makarov, and wondered what I was trying to protect myself from.

Café Corso was over the top for a first date, but I wanted somewhere with front of house as a line of defence. They did Russian-inflected dishes, heavy on cream and pastry. The interior decoration involved doilies and cross-stitch cushions decorated with children sledging. Somewhere a sleazy expat might think was discreet, but not so high-end that you’d run into government men and their mistresses. I chose a seat out of earshot of other diners, but with a sightline to the door.